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This change on noble brows? There is a voice,
With a deep answer, rising from the blood
Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those
From whom just men recoil, with curdling veins,
All thrilled by life's abhorrent consciousness,
And sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence.
Away! come down from your tribunal seat,
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien
Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at,
More than the pestilence. That I should live
To see my father shrink!

Proc. Montalba, speak!

There's something chokes my voice-but fear me not.
Mont. If we must plead to vindicate our acts,
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear!
Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make
To this our charge of treason?

Rai. I will plead

That cause before a mightier judgment-throne,
Where mercy is not guilt. But here, I feel

Too buoyantly the glory and the joy

Of my free spirit's whiteness: for even now
The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem
Before me glaring out.-Why, I saw thee,
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast,
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings.
And thou-thy sword-Oh, valiant chief!—is yet
Red from the noble stroke which pierced, at once,
A mother and the babe, whose little life

Was from her bosom drawn!-Immortal deeds
For bards to hymn!

Guido. (Aside.) I look upon his mien,
And waver. Can it be?-My boyish heart

Deemed him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts! Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine,

From his proud glance?

Proc. Oh, thou dissembler!-thou,

So skilled to clothe with virtue's generous flush
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy,

That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce
Believe thee guilty!-look on me, and say
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved
De Couci, with his bands, to join our foes,
And forge new fetters for the indignant land?

Whose was this treachery? (Shows him papers.)
Who hath done this,

But thou, a tyrant's friend?

Rai. Who hath done this?

Father!-if I may call thee by that name

Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles
Were masks that hid their daggers. There, perchance,
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me,
I know but this-there needs no deep research
Το prove the truth—that murderers may be traitors,
Even to each other.

Proc. (To Montalba.) His unaltering cheek
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue,

And his eye quails not!-Is this innocence?

Mont. No! 'tis the unshrinking hardihood of crime.
Thou bearest a gallant mien!-But where is she
Whom thou hast bartered fame and life to save,
The fair provençal maid?—What! knowest thou not
That this alone were guilt, to death allied?
Was it not our law that he who spared a foe,—
And is she not of that detested race?-

Should henceforth be among us as a foe?
Where hast thou borne her?-Speak!

Rai. That heaven, whose eye

Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance,
Is with her; she is safe.

Proc. And by that word

Thy doom is sealed.-Oh God! that I had died
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength

And glory of my heart!

Rai. The pang is over,

And I have but to die.

Mont. Now, Procida,

Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid
All thy deep soul's commanding energies;

For thou, a chief among us, must pronounce

The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee.

Pro. Ha! ha!-Men's hearts should be of softer mold Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom Their children then with an unfaltering voice, And we must tremble thus! Is it not said, That nature grows degenerate, earth being now So full of days?

Mont. Rouse up thy mighty heart.

Proc. Ay, thou sayest right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind.-Well, what's the task?

There is a man to be condemned, you say?

Is he then guilty?

All. Thus we deem of him

With one accord.

Proc. And hath he nought to plead ?

Rai. Nought but a soul unstained.

Proc. Why, that is little.

Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them,

And conscience may be seared.--But, for this sentence!

Was it not the penalty imposed on man,

Even from creation's dawn, that he must die?

It was thus making guilt a sacrifice

Unto eternal justice; and we but

Obey heaven's mandate when we cast dark souls

-Be it so!

To the elements from amongst us.

Such be his doom!—I have said. Ay, now my heart
Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press
Off! let me breathe in freedom!

Its gaspings down.

Mountains are on my breast!

(He sinks back.)

Mont. Guards, bear the prisoner

Back to his dungeon.

Rai. Father! oh, look up!

Thou art my father still!

Guido. Oh! Raimond, Raimond!

If it should be that I have wronged thee, say

Thou dost forgive me.

Rai. Friend of my young days,

So may all-pitying heaven!

Proc. Whose voice was that?

(Raimond is led out.)

Where is he?-gone ?-now I breathe once more..

In the free air of heaven. Let us away.

HUMOROUS AND DIVERTING.

HOT COCKLES.

SELECTION I.

HENRY—CHARLES.—Anonymous.

Charles. Brother, all our friends have left us, and yet I am still in a playing humor. What game shall we choose?

Henry. There are only two of us, and I am afraid we should not be much diverted.

Char. Let us play at something, however.

Hen. But at what?

Char. At blindman's-buff, for instance.

Hen. That is a game that would never end. It would not be as if there were a dozen, of which number some are generally off their guard; but where there are only two, I should not find it difficult to shun you, or you me; and then when we had caught each other, we should know for certain who it was. Char. That is true, indeed. Well, then, what think you of hot cockles?

Hen. That would be the same, you know. We could not possibly guess wrong.

Char. Perhaps we might. However, let us try.

Hen. With all my heart, if it please you. Look here, if you like it, I will be Hot Cockles first.

Char. Do, brother. Put your right hand on the bottom of this chair. Now stoop down and lay your face close upon it, that you may not see. (He does so.) That is well;—and now your left hand on your back. Well master-but I hope your eyes are shut. (Carefully looking round to see.)

Hen. Yes yes; do not be afraid.

Char. Well, master, what have you to sell?

Hen. Hot cockles! hot!

Char. (Slapping him with his left hand.) Who struck?
Hen. (Getting up.) Why, you, you little goose!

Char. Yes, yes; but with which hand?

Hen. The the right.

Char. No, it was the left. Now you

are

the

goose.

SELECTION II.

HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. MR. H.-STEWARD.—Anonymous.

Mr. H. Ha! Steward, how are you my old boy? How do things go on at home?

Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. H. Poor mag! so he's gone. How came he to die? Stew. Over-ate himself, sir.

Mr. H. Did he, faith? a greedy dog; why, what did he get he liked so well?

Stew. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh.
Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh ?
Stew. All your father's horses, sir.

Mr. H. What! are they dead, too?

Stew. Ay, sir; they died of over-work.

Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray?

Stew. To carry water, sir.

Mr. H. To carry water! and what were they carrying water for?

Stew. Sure sir, to put out the fire.

Mr. H. Fire! what fire?

Stew. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down to the ground.

Mr. H. My father's house burned down! and how came it set on fire?

Stew. I think, sir, it must have been the torches.

Mr. H. Torches! what torches ?

Stew. At your mother's funeral.

Mr. H. My mother dead!

Stew. Ah, poor lady,

Mr. H.

she never looked up

after it.

After what?

Stew. The loss of your father.

Mr. H. My father gone too?

Stew. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it.

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Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your honor.

Mr. H. What! more miseries! more bad news?

Stew. Yes sir, your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news.

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